The Place in Me

Qui­eter than the end­ing of the night when the gray­ing of the black and the gray­ing of the light meet and it’s dawn; qui­eter than the end­ing cir­cuit of the tires on snow after the engine is cut and the hiss of the brakes is over and rivulets trail down the wind­shield and I gather myself to go in; qui­eter than the empti­ness of sound after the echoed shot in the hunt and the hart is down; qui­eter than the clouds beyond the tip of the plane’s wing,